A silent chanter
sits in its silver case,
the year of the piper
is put on hold,
all nations weave about town,
affluent and bronzed.
A cathedral mirage
miraculously disappears,
a Peruvian air
on the panpipes soars,
Our resolve is tested.
In the Max café,
little empires are expanded,
while drinking Annie's Lane,
the guitar man strikes
a personal chord.
From Auburn to Laburnum,
a lady knits a chair cover,
her great-grandparents
transplanted from
famine Cork and Kerry.
Two whistlers play a planxty tune,
In the high noon heat
the lagerphone pulsates,
with a stitched up bodhrán it altercates,
Healing the wounds of
An Unforgotten Culture.
March 2007
This is excellent Ciar'an, Melbourne being my home state I relate to every word. Warmly, Jerry
From the homes of Ireland, from generation to generation, traditional music has spread all over the world. Melbourne is no exception and you have captured its presence in this fine poem reflecting a wealth of Irish music far away in the heat of the day and the contrast of the side street guitar player is equally important. All music has its own soul.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Very enjoyable. Our music cannot help but go wherever we go.